The Plot Thickens, Mom

So let's recap what we have so far . . . 

A routine colonoscopy and an elective outpatient procedure.  I can't - or shouldn't - be too upset about either of those.  That would be like complaining that I have to put gas in my car or get the oil changed regularly.  If I want to drive a car I have to do some regular maintenance.

Then I found myself under some pressure to address normal, natural, on-going deterioration in my mouth.  You might know how this situation evolves, maybe over months and years: your dentist says that you should probably redo an old filling because there's a little decay under there or this old crown needs to be replaced - it's been a good soldier but it's time for a new one - or there's some wear and tear on your front teeth that should be built up and repaired . . . and you're all like: "Yeah, OK, let's keep an eye on that and see how it looks next time" because you're too cheap to do the work and you think that the dentist is a money-grubbing, unethical, dishonest piece of shit that should be condemned to the hottest flames in hell for trying to scare you about the health of your mouth for purely monetary reasons, and anyway nobody likes to have someone digging around in their incredibly sensitive mucous membranes with sharp, stainless steel instruments . . . until one day the work needs to be done.  No more watching.  No more "keeping an eye" on it.  Now.  Make an appointment.

I think I had 12 or 14 old fillings replaced and/or cavities filled.  I know I had two crowns redone.  I was supposed to have three replaced but when the dentist removed one of the old crowns he found a big crack in the tooth which required that the services of a root canal specialist be retained.  The root canal guy worked for a long time on this tooth with those high-speed drills that make an unholy whine before he said: "Man, this crack goes all the way into the root.  Even if I fix it the tooth is going to die before too long and you'll have to have the tooth pulled anyway."  He didn't say "pulled;" he used the word "extracted."  It has more of a clinical, sanitary feel.  He didn't show me a pair of pliers and then say: "Get the idea?"  He said "extracted."

Extract:  To remove forcibly from a fixed position.

No one used language like this to explain what they were going to do.  It was implied, sure.  The tooth was in a fixed position and it had to be removed.  Forcibly, apparently.  While I had a sense of what was going to happen there's no real way to prepare for the experience. 

An hour later I was lying there as an oral surgeon took the recalcitrant tooth the fuck out of my head.  The entire tooth and it came out in chunks.  I posit this: there is really no way to simulate a living tooth in your head being cracked into pieces by a man using what indeed appeared to be pliers of some sort.  You have to remember that this molar is like a tenth of an inch from my auditory canal.  I could clearly hear it come apart.

This was another procedure where there were a lot of people in the room.

I was circumspect about the extraction even while it was going on.  I had a ton of Novocaine in my gums so it didn't really hurt that much and it was, after all, partially my own fault for not taking care of the situation earlier.  I was grateful I had the money to pay for the procedure and that the guy doing it was competent.  I was actually thinking these thoughts at the time.  This goddam Program really does work.

Here's where some complications started to arise . . . 

The roots of the molar being forcibly removed were intruding into my maxillary sinus so a communication was opened up between my mouth and this sinus when the tooth came out.  This allowed the bitter gunk that tastes like shit in my sinus to drain unimpeded into my mouth and this went on for about 6 weeks because the area was too traumatized by the extraction to be surgically repaired.

Communication:  An opening or passageway between two locations.

The repair of this passageway involved mining fat and skin from the inside of my mouth and stuffing it in the hole and then sewing the whole mess shut with 23 stitches and I am not making any of that up.  This was the third procedure in my life that required general anesthesia - the previously discussed colonoscopies being the first two.  I couldn't eat solid foods for and it really did feel terrible for a while but it eventually healed just fine.

I have to remind myself there is a point to all of this pointless bitching about my health.  You know how - at a meeting - someone is droning on and on about something that seems to be pointless and you're thinking: "Is there a point to all of this bitching?" and sometimes there doesn't ever seem to be a point or the person who is actually bitching loses track of the point and just seems to be bitching pointlessly?

This could go either way.